September 6th

I can barely write. My entire being trembles. The words that precede these, they sprawl on this page in ink still wet, but I cannot discern them. I continue in this futility only because I know not what else to do.

This morning was dreary, rainy. I slept in. I woke to find it dreary and rainy still. There was little to eat in the house, and I had days ago finished packing for the conference. I grew restless and donned my cloak and emerged this afternoon. I returned to the cafe. No one else was there. I consumed a moblin claw and hot tea beneath their awning.

Afterward I wandered around town. I steered well clear of the castle. As anticipated, my letter to the commander had resulted in a profound surge in security. Soldiers marked every avenue, every corner. They stood hunched in their cloaks, a vision of misery, and I was glad of it. What few citizens pressed about all bore cloaks as well. Whether I crossed paths with utter strangers or former colleagues, I had no inkling, and I was all the more glad of that.

I arrived home shortly ago, removing my drenched cloak and hanging it on the rack in the corner. My back yet remained to the door when it scraped open again, much to my startlement, and I turned to see a man step inside. He said nothing. He merely stood there, dripping, the hood of his cloak concealing his face.

My initial notion was that Carlaisle or Hugh had come to converse, willing to accept no refusal on my part, but this man's structure notably differed from both of theirs. Then it occurred that Sabon had arranged for a party to retrieve me for the journey to the conference, though I hadn't expected any of them this many days prior to our scheduled departure. I began to approach the man, irked at his brash intrusion.

"I realize it's raining out," I noted, "but I would appreciate the courtesy of a knock rather than your simply barging in."

After a moment he reached under his cloak. I assumed he'd present some manner of documentation, but to my horror he brandished a sword. Immediately I backed away, peering into the void within his hood for some indication as to his intentions. The moment he began to step toward me I raised my hands, panic sweeping out my every former thought and emotion. "I-I beg your pardon. I'm not looking for any trouble."

Still he advanced. "I think you are." His voice was deep, unfamiliar. This was no measure in jest; I was being robbed.

"I...I don't have anything of value, but there's s-some rupees in the pot on the shelf over there. Please, just take it."

"I don't want your money." At this his head lifted somewhat, and I could see his eyes upon me. Those eyes. It was the man I had met in the cathedral and briefly mistaken for Link. Behind my terror I chided myself for not pegging him a scoundrel from the start. A crazed, ill-consumed scoundrel with nothing left to lose, out for blood.

Words were of no avail here. I fled. My sole chance of escape was through the back door, in the kitchen. I dashed to it and yanked the handle, successfully pulling it open but an inch before a hand met the back of my head and shoved me into it, slamming it back shut. The cold metal handle of a sword then struck the left side of my face, causing me to impact the hutch on my right. Dishes and pots crashed on the floor, as well did I. On my back, my hands shook fiercely before me as I began to plead for my life.

"No! Please...!" I could hardly hear myself, could hardly breathe. The tip of the sword hovered close enough to touch.

Standing over me, the man spoke with a menacing calm. "I don't know what your problem is or what the hell you're trying to do to my son, but this whole assassination plot thing had better be cleared up and gone by the time he gets back, or you are not going to like what happens next. Am I making myself clear?"

My mind scrambled to draw sense from his words. His son...his eyes….

...The other Harper. Jarren Harper. He was able to sign for the first package because he was the boy's father. It had never even crossed my mind that the two could be related. He hadn't been asleep in the cathedral, and he hadn't been praying. He had been waiting.

He thrust the sword yet closer to me, piercing my flurry of thoughts. "Am I making myself clear?" His voice filtered out slower, even more terrifying. I could do naught but force two quick nods and squeak affirmation. "Good." He returned the sword to its sheath and proceeded out the way he'd come in, shutting the door behind him.

Afterward I continued to lie there on the kitchen floor, a mess amongst shattered plates and dented pans, too consumed with terror to budge. A clap of thunder jolted the house soon thereafter, and in the next instant I was on my feet, locking the door beside me whilst never daring take my eyes off the front. Then I leaned back, heaved a few breaths, and sprinted out of the kitchen through the living area to the other door, frantically swinging down the lock bar so that it slammed in place. I leaned against it, quivering, and at last I glanced up only for my heart to seize again at what I realized moments later to be my reflection. I scarcely recognized it. My face, smeared with blood and more rigid and pale than ever I've beheld it, is burned into my memory.

Since all of this I have cowered upstairs, my desk slid in front of my bedroom door. Yet alas, it dooms me all the more to stay in here. I must retrieve that schedule from the suit of armor. I must do something to stop what I have so painstakingly propelled into motion, before it's too late.

No good. I endeavored to reach the suit of armor in the castle, but with the heightened security I was unable to do so. I have since drafted another letter to the commander, a retraction, which dismisses the contents of the previous letter as nothing more than a bored fool's hoax. Should it fail to suffice, and I'm woefully certain it will, I am without recourse. I have been snared by my own meticulously laid trap. The appointed knight has won. The words he conveyed within my nightmare in Deya, they make perfect sense now. It was never within my means to stop him. Simply stated, I'm not supposed to be here.

Even if I proceed to depart with Sabon to the conference, however, my life will be at no less risk. Given the high profile nature of the apprenticeship, it will be a mere matter of time before I am found. Before I am slain.

It's no use. The conference is lost. The apprenticeship is lost.

Everything is lost.